


the chemistry of modern warfare

by simplyclockwork



Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Inspired By Tumblr, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV John Watson, big gay fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 18:33:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21202169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: John just really wants Sherlock to look at him





	the chemistry of modern warfare

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a Tumblr post https://simplyclockwork.tumblr.com/post/188622026965/ithinkthereforiamfandom
> 
> and this photo 
> 
> https://66.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lnqu0iXIFQ1qc73f2o1_500.jpg
> 
> (shown below the fic)

John had been trying to get Sherlock to pay attention to him all day. 

Their relationship was new—hardly weeks old. Yes, they had kissed many times since that first hesitant but eager brush of lips on the stairs to their flat. They even held hands, though not as often as John would have liked. They had been intimate; curled up and buried within one another in hot, panting ecstasy; tangling bodies and tongues together under bedsheets. 

But sometimes he just wanted Sherlock to look at him; wanted conversation and his undivided attention in the lazy hours of the day. Well, lazy hours for _him_; busy hours for Sherlock. Working hours— ‘leave me alone, I’m thinking’ hours. 

Now, John didn’t consider himself a particularly needy man, and he believed he was fairly honest with himself. But when it came to Sherlock, to this new, wonderful, set-fire-to-his-skin attraction between them, he wanted _more_. He wanted _all of it_. And that meant he wanted Sherlock to _damn well pay attention_ to him outside the bedroom and his own designated convenience. 

He knew The Work was Sherlock’s life, his main focus, but, dammit, John was important too, and he was fed up with coming second to dead bodies and criminals. Time and again, a new case came up, and John felt himself being pushed to the back burner as Sherlock narrowed his focus to research, deductions, and experiments. 

Last week it was a murder, with Sherlock pacing and staring at spread out crime scene photos. Yesterday it was deciphering cryptic messages hidden in online want ads. Today it was Sherlock staring endlessly into his microscope, balanced over the heavy white instrument with his eye seemingly glued to the view window. 

After trying (and failing) to engage the detective in anything remotely resembling an actual conversation, John had retreated, huffing, into the living room. He had plunked down on the sofa, aggressively shaking open a newspaper and staring at the words as he scowled with annoyance. 

“Hush, John.” Sherlock admonished from his spot in the kitchen, responding to a particularly loud sigh from his flatmate. 

John’s head snapped up, and he glared at the detective, throwing the newspaper aside in a petulant fit. “Bloody git,” he shot back. Sherlock lifted a hand and waved his fingers dismissively. He didn’t bother to look up.

“Working, John.” He replied, tweaking a dial on the side of the microscope, his brow furrowing as he noted something in a small journal.

Signing again, John stood and marched into the kitchen, determined to succeed in this battle. He had been to war, after all, and he wasn’t the kind of man to back down from a challenge. 

He started with gentle kindness, offering tea to the man who seemed hell-bent on perpetually forgetting his existence. 

Sherlock’s response was a ‘no thank you, John’, muttered into the microscope as he fiddled with the settings. 

His second attempt was to drape his arms over the detective’s shoulders; press himself into Sherlock’s back, brushing his lips over the other man’s jaw. He even went so far as to gently tug at the lobe of Sherlock’s ear with his teeth while growling low in his throat, something he knew Sherlock particularly liked. 

For this tactic, he received an annoyed sigh, a tight smile, and Sherlock lifting one shoulder to fend off John’s persistent mouth on his neck.

Next, he planted himself before the kitchen table, fridge open behind him, and threatened to throw away a container of what looked like human fingers (and which he hoped wasn’t, but he was not about to hold his breath on that one). Sherlock just snorted; reached out one long-fingered hand to snatch the container away, never breaking from his hunch over the microscope. 

John even went so far as to try shoving the man off the chair he sat in, but Sherlock planted his feet and frowned, demanding that he stop. 

“Really, John—what has gotten into you?” He had asked, voice heavy with exasperation. He still hadn’t looked up, and John had stomped away to the living room to lick his wounds and regroup. 

He needed the tactical upper hand. He just wasn’t sure how to get it. Endlessly frustrated, he called a one-sided ceasefire and went for a shower. 

After angrily scrubbing at his body in the hot spray, he shut off the taps and stepped into the cold bathroom. As John wrapped a towel around his waist, an idea occurred. 

A plan. 

Grinning mischievously, he slipped into the living room to retrieve his phone before walking into the kitchen. Blatantly ignoring the man seated at the table, he casually made his way to the fridge, which he opened and stared into for much longer than was necessary. Cold air wafting over his warm, damp skin, he waited.

It wasn’t long before Sherlock made a noise behind him, somewhere between annoyance and confusion. 

“_Again_ with the fridge, John?” he began, deep voice pitching upwards with a note of irritation. “_Must_ you leave the door open? These temperature fluctuations will negatively impact the results of my—” He stopped talking abruptly. Grinning, John turned, letting the fridge door swing shut behind him.

“Yes, Sherlock?” He hummed, standing before the detective in naught but a thin towel, set low upon his hips, skin still slick from the shower. 

“I—” Sherlock’s eyes slipped over John’s body, hovering at the edge of the towel, but then he shook himself as if from a daze. Shrugging his shoulders, he began to turn back to his work. “Nothing, John.”

Scowling and unwilling to admit defeat, John deftly unwrapped the towel. Letting it fall to his feet, he stared resolutely at the other man. Sherlock, catching the movement from the edge of his vision, paused and turned back, eyes flicking downwards before slowly, unwillingly, moving up to John’s face. 

“Well, hello there.” John greeted him, his voice smug and triumphant. As he smirked, John lifted his phone and snapped a picture of Sherlock’s humorously perturbed expression. Mission accomplished, John bent down, picked up the discarded towel, and rewound it around his waist. Leaning forward, he dropped a heavy, slow kiss on Sherlock’s lips before leaning back and straightening. “So nice to _finally_ see your face.” Tipping the detective a wink, he moved to walk past the table, headed for the living room. 

A strong hand, all long, grabbing fingers, latched onto the back of his towel, yanking John back as he locked his own hands onto the towel to keep it up. Looking back, he found Sherlock standing behind him, brows furrowed over his sharp eyes.

“Maybe it’s time to take a break from working.” He hummed, reeling the other man into his body and tugging at the towel. John looked up at Sherlock from under heavy eyelids, a cocky grin spreading across his face. 

“Mm, I think so.” John murmured. Pressing himself against his flatmate, he let the towel drop from his waist.

**The** **Photo**


End file.
